Fifty shades of emerald
by Marvellover16
Summary: When Rebel, Hannah Emerald goes to interview young entrepreneur Loki Laufeyson she encounters a man who is beautiful, brilliant, and intimidating. The innocent Hannah is startled to realize she wants this man and, despite his enigmatic reserve, finds she is desperate to get close to him. Unable to resist Hannah's quiet beauty will Loki fall?
1. Chapter 1

Hello everyone! Okay so the magnificent E.L James owns Fifty shades of grey, I have simply used her brilliant idea to create a Loki fanfiction. That being said this will be m from the beginning containing strong language and of course a lot of sex. The only thing I own are my OCs and of course marvel owns the marvel characters which have been used in this fanfiction. I hope you enjoy xx

Chapter 1

I angrily chuck my hairbrush into the bath as I glare at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair - it has decided to take a mind of its own, and damn Becky Smith for being ill and therefore causing me to be part of this... Thing. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into some sort of order. Why the hell had I slept with it wet? I must not sleep with my hair wet ever again. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with my fingers. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with green eyes too wide for her face (which have been toned down with heavy eye makeup,) and give up. My only option is to restrain my crazy hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable. If that were even possible. Why did I not have time to use my GHDs?

Becky is my roommate, and the horrible, microscopic pathogens have decided, of all weeks, to invade her now.

Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she'd arranged to do, with some billionaire master mind I've never heard of, for the student newspaper. Something about the Avengers, which I have heard of, and Tony Stark trying to set Mr. Laufeyson on the straight and narrow. So I have been volunteered. Where's my Katniss Everdeen when I need her? I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I'm supposed to be working this afternoon, but no - today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to London in order to meet the mysterious CEO of Laufeyson Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious - much more precious than mine - but he has granted Becky an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities. Damn me for agreeing to do this. I'm interviewing someone who tried to destroy Manhattan! Perhaps Becky is faking it so I die instead?

Becky is huddled on the couch in the living room. "Hannah, I'm sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we'll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can't blow this off. Please," Becky begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice. How does she do it? Even ill she looks cute and gorgeous, blonde hair in place and blue eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy, I'm just jealous the bitch that I am.

"Of course I'll go Becky. You should get back to bed. Would you like some paracetamol or Beechams?"

"Beechams, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I'll transcribe it all," Becky explained whilst my back was turned. What great help that was going to be.

"I know nothing about him," I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic as I pour out the medicine for her to take. "Well, barely anything."

"The questions will see you through. Go. It's a long drive. I don't want you to be late," Becky smiled up at me. The things best friends make you do. She handed me the recorder.

"Okay, I'm going. Get back to bed," I motioned to the bed. "I made you some soup to heat up later." I look at her fondly: only for you, Becky would I do this. I shoved the recorder in my satchel.

"I will. Good luck, and thanks Hannah - as usual, you're my lifesaver," Becky beamed up at me.

Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Becky talk me into this. But then Becky can talk anyone into anything. She'll make an exceptional journalist. She's articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful - and she's my best friend.

The roads are clear as I set off from Reigate toward London, on the M25. It's early, and I don't have to be in London until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Kate's lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Sherlock, my old Mini Cooper, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal, the engine growling as passengers turn to stare. I let a grin spread across my face, the Merc was very fun.

My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Laufeyson's global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with Laufeyson House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I'm not late as I walk into the enormous - and frankly intimidating - glass, steel, and black marble lobby.

Behind the solid marble desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharpest white suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate. Much more than could be said for me.

"I'm here to see Mr. Laufeyson. Hannah Emerald for Becky Smith."

"Excuse me one moment, Miss Emerald." She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I am beginning to wish I'd borrowed one of Kate's formal blazers rather than wear my black leather jacket. I look like some rock emo hobo, I mean I have made an effort and worn my one and only knee-length skirt, my sensible black knee-length boots (which may or may not have giant buckles on) and a red sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn't intimidate me. In fact she doesn't, I straighten my back and square my shoulders, I should be intimidating in what I'm wearing, not her. Especially with my ear spikes, I grin, I'm such a rebel.

"Miss Smith is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Emerald. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor." She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.

She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can't help my smirk. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all. I don't fit in anywhere.

Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits. One of them appears to be looking me up, disgusting.

The elevator whisks me up to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I'm in another large lobby - again all glass, steel, and black marble. I'm confronted by another desk of marble and another young blonde woman dressed impeccably in white who rises to greet me.

"Miss Emerald, could you wait here, please?" She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.

Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the London skyline that looks out through the city toward Canary wharf. It's a stunning vista, and I'm momentarily paralysed by the view. Wow, I shake my head heading over to the seats.

Sitting down, I fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly cursing Becky for not providing me with a brief biography. I barely know anything about this man I'm about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. Hell, I'm an unsociable bitch who doesn't socialise much at all. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic novel, curled up in a chair in my room. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass and stone dungeon.

I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Emerald. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Laufeyson is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.

Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes, it's like Essex here, well minus the immaculate. Taking a deep breath, I stand up. "Miss Emerald?" the latest blonde asks.

"Yes," I croak, and clear my throat. "Yes." There, that sounded more confident.

"Mr. Laufeyson will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?"

"Please." I struggle out of the jacket. She better not lose it, that thing cost me far too much money.

"Have you been offered any refreshments?" She asked neatly folding my jacket over her arm.

"Um - no." Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble? I hope so.

Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk. If looks could kill.

"Would you like tea, coffee, water?" she asks, turning her attention back to me.

"A glass of water. Thank you," I murmur.

"Olivia, please fetch Miss Emerald a glass of water." Her voice is stern. Olivia scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.

"My apologies, Miss Emerald, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Laufeyson will be another five minutes," the blonde struggles to not look up at me as she tells me what to do. I wasn't even wearing heels.

I sit waiting.

Olivia returns with a glass of iced water. "Here you go, Miss Emerald."

"Thank you," I smile, taking the ice cold glass in my hand.

Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the marble floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work.

Perhaps Mr. Laufeyson insists on all his employees being blonde. I'm wondering idly if that's legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive American man with blonde hair exits. Captain America! I have definitely worn the wrong clothes, shit.

He turns and says through the door. "Paintball, this week, Laufeyson."

I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She's more nervous than me, or eager to impress. Probably wants to get in the Captain's pants. I quietly giggle.

"Good afternoon ladies," he says as he departs through the sliding door. He has a nice arse.

"Mr. Laufeyson will see you now, Miss Emerald. Do go through," Blonde Number Two says stopping my gaze.

I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.

"You don't need to knock - just go in." She smiles kindly.

I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office.

Double crap - me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Laufeyson's office, lean hands are picking up my stuff as I hastily stand up. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow - he's so young.

"Miss Smith." He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I'm upright. "I'm Loki Laufeyson. Are you all right? Would you like to sit down?" Pretty polite for someone who tried to destroy Manhattan and kill the human race, but you know...

So young - and attractive, very attractive. He's tall, dressed in a fine charcoal suit, white shirt, and green tie with black, straight hair and intense, bright blue eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.

"Um. Actually - " I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I'm a monkey's uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate. "Miss Smith is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Laufeyson."

"And you are?" His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite. Again weird.

"Hannah Emerald. I'm studying English Literature with Becky, um... Rebecca...um... Miss Smith at Cambridge." What the hell was happening to me?

"I see," he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I'm not sure. "Would you like to sit down?" He waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch.

His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there's a huge modern white desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is black - ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite - a series of paintings portraying a stunning city, almost like photographs like something out of a movie.

"A local artist," says Laufeyson when he catches my gaze. "They are of a place called Asgard."

"They're lovely. Asgard looks amazing," I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings.

He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently. "I could not agree more, Miss Emerald," he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.

Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Becky's questions from my satchel. Not before noticing a golden sceptre in the corner of the room, interesting.

Next, I set up the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Laufeyson says nothing, waiting patiently - I hope - as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to suppress a smile. In fact, I know he is.

"Sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this." Why the hell didn't I pay attention to Becky's instructions?

"Take all the time you need, Miss Emerald," he says, lips straining to stop a smile.

"Do you mind if I record your answers?" I ask, pushing an escaped strand of hair behind my ear.

"After you have taken so much trouble to set up the recorder - you ask me now?" His lips aren't smiling but his eyes definitely are. Great, I am now being laughed at.

I flush. He's teasing me hopefully. I blink at him, unsure of what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. "No, I do not mind."

"Did Becky, I mean, Miss Smith, explain what the interview was for?"

"Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony," he waves his hand. They'd trust this psychopath to do that? At least graduation would be interesting...

Oh! This is news though. I'm temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me - okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, crazy, but still - is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.

"Good," I swallow nervously. "I have some questions, Mr. Laufeyson." I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"I thought you might," he says, deadpan. He's laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realisation, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional. If you call trying not to burst out giggling by biting your lip professional.

"You're not the type of person people would have thought would amass such an empire. To what do you owe your success?" I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.

"I quite agree. However business is all about people, Miss Emerald, and I'm very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn't, what inspires them, and how to manipulate them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well." He pauses and fixes me with his cold blue stare. "My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it's always down to good people."

"You haven't been a good person." This isn't on Becky's list - but he's so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise at my comment. Shit, what had I just said?

"I don't suppose I have, Miss Emerald. However I have worked hard to become a better person. It really is all about having the right people on your team to direct you in the right direction. I am now in control of myself and therefore my business. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said 'the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.'"

"You sound like a control freak." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

"Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Emerald," he says without a trace of humour in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again. Oh dear god.

Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? Maybe his overwhelming good-looks? The way his eyes drill into my soul? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip, I really wish he'd stop doing that.

"Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things," he continues, his voice soft. "As I once said: an ant has no quarrel with a boot."

"Do you feel that you have immense power?" Control Freak. Psychopathic control freak.

"I employ over forty thousand people, Miss Emerald . That gives me a certain sense of responsibility - power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the weapons business and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so."

My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility. "Don't you have a board to answer to?" I ask, disgusted.

"Apart from Mr. Stark, no. I own my company. I do not have to answer to a board." He raises an eyebrow at me.

I flush. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research. But holy crap, he's so arrogant. I change tactics. "And do you have any interests outside your work?"

"I have varied interests, Miss Emerald." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Very varied."

And for some reason, I'm confounded and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought. Okay...

"But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?"

"Chill out?" He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth.

I stop breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking, especially a psychopath.

"Well, to 'chill out' as you put it - I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits." He shifts in his chair. "I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Emerald, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies."

I glance quickly at Becky's questions, wanting to get off this subject. "You invest in the manufacturing of weapons. Why that specifically?" I ask. Why does he make me so uncomfortable? Maybes because he could kill you in less than a minute?

"I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of weapons. What can I say?"

"That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts."

His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me. "Possibly. Though there are people who'd say I don't have a heart."

"Why would they say that?" Why did I ask that? Even I knew the answer!

"Because they know me well." His lip curls in a wry smile.

"Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?" And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It's not on Becky's list, and besides does he even have friends?

"I'm a very private person, Miss Emerald. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don't often give interviews," he trails off.

"Why did you agree to do this one?"

"Because I'm a benefactor of the University, and for all intentional purposes, I couldn't get Miss Smith off of my back. She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity."

I know how tenacious Becky can be. That's why I'm sitting here squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for my exams. "You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?" Yes why is a psychopath interested in this?

"We can't eat money, Miss Emerald, and there are too many people on this planet who don't have enough to eat." His idea gaze flickers to the window then back to me.

"That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about: feeding the world's poor?" Why would a psychopath care?

He shrugs, very non-committal. "It's shrewd business," he murmurs, though I think he's being disingenuous.

It doesn't make sense - feeding the world's poor? I can't see the financial benefits of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by his attitude. "Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?"

"I don't have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle - Carnegie's: 'A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.' I'm very singular, driven. I like control - of myself and those around me."

"So you want to possess things?" You are a psychopathic control freak.

"I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do." He smirks again, canines sharp.

"You sound like the ultimate consumer." I roll my eyes, looking out of the window.

"I am."

I look back to see him smiling, but the smile doesn't touch his eyes. Again this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can't help thinking that we're talking about something else, but I'm absolutely mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising or maybe it's just me. I just want this interview to be over. Surely Becky has enough material now.

I glance at the next question. "You were adopted. How far do you think that's shaped the way you are?" Oh, this is personal. I stare at him, hoping he's not offended. His brow furrows. Of course he's offended. I've just signed my bloody death sentence! At least I'll die in the arms of an angel... Sort of.

"I have no way of knowing." His frown disappears. "However I suggest you look at my past to make your own judgement."

My interest is piqued. "How old were you when you were adopted?"

"That's a matter of public record, Miss Emerald," His tone is stern.

I flush, again. Crap. Yes of course - if I'd known I was doing this interview, I would have done some research.

I move on quickly. "You've had to sacrifice a family life for your work."

"That's not a question." He's terse, hands gripping the chair arms, probably hoping it's my neck.

"Sorry." I squirm, and he's suddenly made me feel like an errant child. I try again. "Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?"

"I have a family. I have a brother and father. I'm not interested in extending my family beyond that." His gaze goes back to the window.

"What happened to your mother?" I ask. That wasn't on the list either... Shit.

His whole body tensed. His eyes darkened and angry when they meet mine. At me, probably. "It is none of your business what happened to my mother, only that she is no longer here with us today."

"Oh." He wasn't angry at me, it was at what had happened to his mother. "I'm so sorry."

"Next question, Miss Emerald," his gaze has softened.

"Are you gay, Mr. Laufeyson?" Fuck.

He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Crap. Why didn't I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out. How can I tell him I'm just reading Becky's bloody questions? Damn Becky and her curiosity!

"No Hannah, I'm not." He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased.

"I apologise. It's um... written here." It's the first time he's said my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear. How many times have I done that?

He cocks his head to one side, black hair falling out of place. "These aren't your own questions?"

The blood drains from my head. Oh no. "Err... no. Becky - Miss Smith - she compiled the questions."

"Are you colleagues on the student paper?" He asks, tucking his hair back into place.

Oh crap. I have nothing to do with the student paper. It's her extra-curricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame. "No. She's my roommate."

He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his blue eyes appraising me. "Did you volunteer to do this interview?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet.

Hang on, who's supposed to be interviewing who in this damn mess? His eyes burn into me, and I'm compelled to answer with the truth, which is quite unusual.

"I was drafted. She's not well." My voice is weak and apologetic. What was this man doing to me?

"That explains a great deal." His eyes watch me. Now that was just damn right rude.

I glare at him.

There's a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters. "Mr. Laufeyson, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."

"We're not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting," Mr. Laufeyson's gaze never left mine as he spoke.

Andrea hesitates, gaping at him. She's appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh good. It's not just me.

"Very well, Mr. Laufeyson," she mutters, then exits.

He frowns, and turns his attention back to me. "Where were we, Miss Emerald?"

Oh, we're back to 'Miss Emerald' now. "Please don't let me keep you from anything." I had to show I could be polite.

"I want to know about you. I think that's only fair." His blue eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where's he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very... distracting.

I swallow. "There's not much to know," I say, flushing again.

"What are your plans after you graduate?" His mouth, god dammit the way it moved.

I shrug, thrown by his interest, and his mouth. My plans so far: Come to London with Becky, find a place, find a job. I haven't really thought beyond my finals. "I haven't made any plans, Mr. Laufeyson. I just need to get through my final exams."

Which I should be studying for now rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating, psychopathic gaze.

"We run an excellent internship program here," he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job?

"Oh. I'll bear that in mind," I murmur, completely confounded. "Though I'm not sure I'd fit in here." Oh no, I'm musing out loud again. But I'm right.

"Why do you say that?" He cocks his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Why is he always cocking his head?

"It's obvious, isn't it?" I'm uncoordinated, scruffy, and I'm not blonde, as well as not stupid enough to work for a psychopath.

"Not to me," he murmurs. His gaze is intense, all humour gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What's going on? I have to go - now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder.

"Would you like me to show you around?" he asks, still watching me.

"I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. Laufeyson and I do have a long drive." I smiled, turning off the recorder.

"You're driving back to Cambridge in London?" He sounds surprised, anxious even. "It's not that far." He glances out of the window. It's started to rain, well that's England for you. "Well, you'd better drive carefully." His tone is stern, authoritative. Why should he care? "Did you get everything you need?" he adds.

"Yes sir. And I'm driving back to Surrey," I reply, packing the recorder into my satchel. His eyes narrow, speculatively. "Becky, I mean Miss Smith is at home as whatever it is she has, is contagious. Besides we've left campus to study at home."

"I see," he nodded his head.

"Thank you for the interview, Mr. Laufeyson," I smile.

"The pleasure's been all mine," he says, polite as ever. Maybes Stark or S.H.I.E.L.D brainwashed him.

As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.

"Until we meet again, Miss Emerald." And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I'm not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves. Or him, rumour has it he's not from around here anyway.

"Mr. Laufeyson." I nod at him.

Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide. Bloody hell, he's tall. "Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Emerald." He gives me a small smile.

Obviously, he's referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I flush. "That's very considerate, Mr. Laufeyson," I snap, and his smile widens. "You'd make a great comedian." I'm glad you find me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I'm surprised that he follows me out. Andrea and Olivia both look up, equally surprised.

"Did you have a coat?" Laufeyson asks.

"Yes." Olivia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Laufeyson takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on.

Laufeyson places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting - awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his.

The doors open, and I hurry in desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he's leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It's distracting. His burning blue eyes on me.

"Hannah," he says as a farewell.

"Loki," I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.

Please review and let me know what you think xx


	2. Chapter 2

**okay so once again the brilliant E.L James owns fifty shades of grey and the plot line, and marvel unfortunately own Loki and all the other marvel characters. I only own my OCs. Thank you the reviews so far xx enjoy!**

Chapter Two

My heart is pounding like some sort of erratic stallion. The elevator arrives on the first floor, and I scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once, but fortunately not sprawling on to the vast marble floor. Thank god.

I race for the wide glass doors, and I'm free in the bracing, polluted, damp air of London. Raising my face, I welcome the cool refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what's left of my equilibrium. If there was any to begin with.

No man has ever affected me the way Loki Laufeyson has, and I do not know why.

Is it his looks? His power? His wealth? His devilish smile? I don't understand my unexpected reaction.

I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. What in heaven's name was that all about? Leaning against one of the steel pillars of the building, I try to slow down my heaving chest and gather my scattered thoughts. I shake my head. Holy crap - what was that? My heart steadies to its regular rhythm, and I can breathe normally again. I head for the car.

As I leave the city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed as I replay the interview in my mind. Surely, I'm over-reacting to something that's imaginary. Okay, so he's very attractive, confident, commanding, at ease with himself - but on the flip side, he's arrogant, and for all his impeccable manners, he's autocratic and cold. Well, on the surface. Oh and a fucking psychopath!

An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. He may be arrogant, but then he has a right to be - he's accomplished so much at such a young age, (yes he took over the world, or tried to). He doesn't suffer fools gladly, but why should he? I'm irritated that Becky didn't give me a brief biography.

While cruising along the M25 my mind continues to wander. I'm quite literally confused as to what can make someone so driven to succeed. Some of his answers were so cryptic - as if he had a hidden agenda (probably did: take over the world mark 2). And Becky's questions - ugh! The adoption and asking him if he was gay! I shudder. I can't believe I said that. Ground, swallow me up now! Every time I think of that question in the future, I will cringe with embarrassment. Damn Rebecca Smith!

I check the speedometer. I'm driving more cautiously than I would on any other occasion. And I know it's the memory of two penetrating blue eyes gazing at me, and a stern voice telling me to drive carefully. Shaking my head, I realise that Laufeyson's more like a man double his age.

Forget it, Hannah, I scold myself. I decide that all in all, it's been a very interesting experience, but I shouldn't dwell on it . Put it behind you. I never have to see him again. I'm immediately cheered by the thought. I switch on the MP3 player and turn the volume up loud, sit back, and listen to thumping indie rock music as I press down on the accelerator. I don't need to do as he tells me.

As near the junction 8, I realise I can drive as fast as I want. Fuck the law right now.

We live in a small community of duplex apartments in London normally, close to the Cambridge campus, obviously not right now because of her being ill. I'm lucky - Becky's parents bought the place for her, and I pay peanuts for rent. It's been home for four years now. As I pull up outside Becky's house, I know that she is going to want a blow-by-blow account, and she won't give up until she does. Well, at least she has the mini-disc. Hopefully I won't have to elaborate too much beyond what was said during the interview.

"Hannah! You're back." Becky sits in our living area, surrounded by books. She's clearly been studying for finals - though she's still in her pink flannel pyjamas decorated with cute little rabbits, the ones she reserves for the aftermath of breaking up with boyfriends, for assorted illnesses, and for general moody depression. She bounds up to me and hugs me hard. "I was beginning to worry. I expected you back sooner."

"Oh, I thought I made good time considering the interview ran over." I wave the mini-disc recorder at her triumphantly.

"Hannah, thank you so much for doing this. I owe you, I know. How was it? What was he like?" Oh no - here we go, the Rebecca Smith Inquisition.

I struggle to answer her question. What can I say?

"I'm glad it's over, and I don't have to see him again. He was rather intimidating, you know." I shrug. "He's very focused, intense even - and young. Really young."

Becky gazes innocently at me. I frown at her.

"Don't you look so innocent. Why didn't you give me a biography? He made me feel like such an idiot for skimping on basic research." I shivered remembering how many times I blushed in the presence of Mr. Laufeyson.

Becky clamps a hand to her mouth. "Jeez, Hannah, I'm sorry - I didn't think." I can tell.

I huff. "Mostly he was courteous, formal, slightly stuffy - like he's old before his time. He doesn't talk like a man of twenty-something, more like Shakespeare. How old is he anyway?"

"Twenty-seven. Jeez, Hannah, I'm sorry. I should have briefed you, but I was in such a panic. Let me have the mini-disc, and I'll start transcribing the interview." This should be interesting...

"You look better. Did you eat your soup?" I ask, keen to change the subject. I didn't want to remember those burning ice cold blue eyes.

"Yes, and it was delicious as usual. I'm feeling much better." She smiles at me in gratitude.

I check my watch. "I have to run. I can still make my shift at Homebase."

"But Hannah, you'll be exhausted," Becky jumped on the sofa, peering up at me.

"I'll be fine. I'll see you later," I laughed grabbing my car keys and heading out of the door.

I've worked at Homebase since I started at Cambridge. It's the largest independent hardware store in the London area, and over the four years I've worked here, I've come to know a little bit about most everything we sell - although ironically, I'm crap at any DIY. I leave all that to my dad. I'm much more of a curl-up-with-a-book-in-a-comfy-chair-by-the-fire kind of girl. I'm glad I can make my shift as it gives me something to focus on that isn't Loki Laufeyson. We're busy - it's the start of the summer season, and folks are redecorating their homes. Mrs. Taylor, the store manager is pleased to see me.

"Hannah! I thought you weren't going to make it today," she cried, whilst stocking shelves.

"My appointment didn't take as long as I thought. I can do a couple of hours," I smile, clutching the handle of satchel.

"I'm real pleased to see you." She sends me to the storeroom to start re-stocking shelves, and I'm soon absorbed in the task. Loki Laufeyson nearly forgotten.

When I arrive home later, Becky is wearing headphones and working on her laptop.

Her nose is still pink, but she has her teeth into a story, so she's concentrating and her keyboard is clicking furiously. I'm thoroughly drained - exhausted by the long drive, the gruelling interview, and by being rushed off my feet at Homebase. I slump on to the couch, thinking about the essay I have to finish and all the studying I haven't done today because I was holed up with ... him.

"You've got some good stuff here, Hannah. Well done. I can't believe you didn't take him up on his offer to show you around. He obviously wanted to spend more time with you." She gives me a fleeting quizzical look.

I flush, and my heart rate inexplicably increases. No, that wasn't the reason. Surely he just wanted to show me around so I could see that he was lord of all he surveyed. I realise I'm biting my lip, and I hope Kate doesn't notice. But she seems absorbed in her transcription."I hear what you mean about formal. Did you take any notes?" she asks.

"Um... no, I didn't," I shrug putting my satchel on the floor.

"That's fine. I can still make a fine article with this. Shame we don't have some original stills. Good-looking son of a bitch, isn't he?" She still doesn't look up from her laptop.

I flush. "I suppose so." I try hard to sound disinterested, and I think I succeed because in all honesty I know so. I collapse into a chair across the room.

"Oh come on, Hannah - even you can't be immune to his looks." She arches a perfect eyebrow at me.

Crap! I distract her with flattery, always a good ploy. "You probably would have got a lot more out of him. You're both psychopaths."

"Funny, but I seriously doubt that, Hannah. Come on - he practically offered you a job. Given that I dumped this on you at the last minute, you did very well." She glances up at me speculatively. I make a hasty retreat into the kitchen.

"So what did you really think of him?" Damn, she's inquisitive. Why can't she just let this go? Think of something - quick.

"He's very driven, controlling, arrogant - scary really, but very charismatic. I can understand the fascination," I add truthfully, as I peer round the door at her hoping this will shut her up once and for all.

"You, fascinated by a man? That's a first," she snorts.

I start gathering the makings of a sandwich so she can't see my face.

"Why did you want to know if he was gay? Incidentally, that was the most embarrassing question. I was mortified, and he was pissed to be asked too." I scowl at the memory.

"Whenever he's in the society pages, he never has a date."

"It was embarrassing. The whole thing was embarrassing. I'm glad I'll never have to lay eyes on him again," I mutter.

"Oh, Hannah, it can't have been that bad. I think he sounds quite taken with you."

Taken with me, now Becky's being ridiculous. Let's change the subject: "Would you like a sandwich?"

"Please."

We talk no more of Loki Laufeyson that evening, much to my relief. Once we've eaten, I'm able to sit at the dining table with Becky and, while she works on her article, I work on my essay on Tess of the D'Urbervilles. Damn, but that woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong century. By the time I finish, it's midnight, and Becky has long since gone to bed. I make my way to my room, exhausted, but pleased that I've accomplished so much for a Monday.

I curl up in my white iron bed, wrapping my mother's quilt around me, close my eyes, and I'm instantly asleep. That night I dream of dark places, a sceptre, and blue eyes.

For the rest of the week, I throw myself into my studies and my job at Homebase. Becky is busy too, compiling her last edition of her student magazine before she has to relinquish it to the new editor while also cramming for her finals. By Wednesday, she's much better, and I no longer have to endure the sight of her pink-flannel-with-too-many-rabbits PJs. And we are back in our apartment in London.

I call my Mum in Georgia to check on her, but also so she can wish me luck for my final exams. She proceeds to tell me about her latest venture into candle making - my mother is all about new business ventures. Fundamentally she's bored and wants something to occupy her time, but she has the attention span of a goldfish. It'll be something new next week.

She worries me. I hope she hasn't mortgaged the house to finance this latest scheme. And I hope that Bob - her relatively new but much older husband - is keeping an eye on her now that I'm no longer there. He does seem a lot more grounded than Husband Number Three.

"How are things with you, Hannah?"

For a moment, I hesitate, and I have Mum's full attention. "I'm fine."

"Hannah, have you met someone?" Wow... how does she do that? The excitement in her voice is obvious.

"No, Mum, it's nothing. You'll be the first to know if I do."

"Hannah, you really need to get out more, honey. You worry me." I think she thinks I'm a lesbian but doesn't have the balls to ask me.

"Mum, I'm fine. How's Bob?" As ever, distraction is the best policy. If only that could be said for me.

Later that evening, I call Ray, my stepdad, Mom's Husband Number Two, the man I consider my father, and the man whose name I bear. It's a brief conversation. In fact, it's not so much a conversation as a one-sided series of grunts in response to my gentle coaxing. Ray is not a talker. But he's still alive, he's still watching soccer on TV, and going bowling and fly-fishing or making furniture when he's not. Ray is a skilled carpenter and the reason I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw. All seems well with him. If only all were well with me.

Friday night, Becky and I are debating what to do with our evening - we want some time out from our studies, from our work, and from student newspapers - when the doorbell rings.

Standing on our doorstep is my good friend Joe, clutching a bottle of champagne. Dark hair wild in a pair of jeans and a loose fitting logo shirt.

"Joe! Great to see you!" I give him a quick hug. "Come in."

Joe is the first person I met when I arrived at Cambridge, looking as lost and lonely as I did. Apart from he was acting lost and lonely because he's a S.H.I.E.L.D agent. However we recognised a kindred spirit in each of us that day, and we've been friends ever since.

Not only do we share a sense of humour, but we discovered that both Ray and Joe Senior were in the same army unit together. As a result, our fathers have become firm friends too.

Joe is studying engineering and is the first in his family to make it to college, they were all too busy with S.H.I.E.L.D to bother with education. He's pretty damn bright, but his real passion is photography. Jose has a great eye for a good picture.

"I have news." He grins, his dark eyes twinkling as he sits beside me on the sofa, Becky across from us on a chair.

"Don't tell me - you've managed not to get kicked out for another week," I tease, and he scowls playfully at me.

"The Portland Place Gallery is going to exhibit my photos next month."

"That's amazing - congratulations!" Delighted for him, I hug him again.

Becky beams at him too. "Way to go Joe! I should put this in the paper. Nothing like last minute editorial changes on a Friday evening." She grins.

"Let's celebrate. I want you to come to the opening." Joe looks intently at me.

I look away, setting my gaze on my hands; which have become very interesting...

"Both of you, of course," he adds. I look up to see him glancing nervously at Becky.

Joe and I are good friends, but I know deep down inside, he'd like to be more. He's cute and funny, but he's just not for me. He's more like the brother I never had. Becky often teases me that I'm missing the need-a-boyfriend gene, but the truth is - I just haven't met anyone who... well, whom I'm attracted to, even though part me longs for those trembling knees, heart-in-my-mouth, butterflies-in-my-belly, sleepless nights. Which quite frankly hasn't and probably never will happen to me.

Sometimes I wonder if there's something wrong with me. Perhaps I've spent too long in the company of my literary romantic heroes, and consequently my ideals and expectations are far too high. But in reality, nobody's ever made me feel like that. Until very recently, the unwelcome, still small voice of my subconscious whispers.

NO! I banish the thought immediately. I am not going there, not after that painful interview. "Are you gay, Mr. Laufeyson?" I wince at the memory. I know I've dreamt about him most nights since then, but that's just to purge the awful experience from my system, surely?

I watch Joe open the bottle of champagne. He's tall, and in his jeans and t-shirt he's all shoulders and muscles, tanned skin, dark hair and burning dark eyes. Yes, Joe's pretty hot, but I think he's finally getting the message: we're just friends. The cork makes its loud pop, and Joe looks up and smiles. Hopefully he's got the message.

Saturday at the store is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, John and Patrick - the two other part-timers

- and I are all rushed off our feet. But there's a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Taylor asks me to check on some orders while I'm sitting behind the counter at the till discreetly eating my bagel. I'm engrossed in the task, checking catalogue numbers against the items we need and the items we've ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I check the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up... and find myself locked in the bold blue gaze of Loki Laufeyson who's standing at the counter, staring at me intently.

I swear my heart just stopped.

"Miss Emerald. What a pleasant surprise." His gaze is unwavering and intense.

Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here looking all tousled-hair and outdoorsy in his black sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can't locate my brain or my voice.

"Mr. Laufeyson," I whisper, because that's all I can manage. There's a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humour, as if he's enjoying some private joke.

"I was in the area," he says by way of explanation. "I need to stock up on a few things. It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Emerald." His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel... or something.

I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo, and for some reason I'm blushing furiously under his steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He's not merely good-looking - he's the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking, and he's here. Here in Homebase of all bloody places. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body.

"Hannah. My name's Hannah," I mutter. "What can I help you with, Mr. Laufeyson?"

He smiles, and again it's like he's privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I've-worked-in-this-shop-for-years facade. I can do this.

"There are a few items I need. To start with, I'd like some cable ties," he murmurs, his blue eyes cool but amused.

Cable ties? He's definitely planning on taking over the world.

"We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?" I mutter, my voice soft and shaky. What the hell? Get a grip woman.

A slight frown mars Laufeyson's rather lovely brow. "Please, lead the way, Miss Emerald," he says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I'm concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet - my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jelly. I'm so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning, meaning they make my arse look half decent.

"They're in with the electrical goods, aisle eight." My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he's handsome. I blush.

"After you," he murmurs, gesturing with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured my heart almost strangling me - because it's in my throat trying to escape from my mouth - I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Cambridge?

Why is he in Homebase? And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain - probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata (god that's a big word) where my subconscious dwells - comes the thought: he's here to see you. Bullshit. I dismiss the idea immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me? The idea is ridiculous, and I kick it out of my head.

"Are you in Cambridge on business?" I ask, and my voice is too high, like I've got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool Hannah! If that's possible.

"I was visiting the farming division. It's based at Vancouver. I'm currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science," he says matter-of-factly.

See? Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I flush at my foolish wayward thoughts.

"All part of your feed-the-world plan?" I tease.

"Something like that," he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half smile.

He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Homebase. What on Earth is he going to do with those? I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He bends and selects a packet.

"These will do," he says with his oh-so-secret smile, and I blush.

"Is there anything else?" I ask allowing myself to place a hand on my hip.

"I'd like some masking tape," he smirks.

Masking tape? I'm not sure how you'd take over a world with masking tape and cable ties, but with him I'm sure it could be possible.

"Are you redecorating?" The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires labourers or has staff to help him decorate?

"No, not redecorating," he says quickly then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he's laughing at me.

Am I that funny? Funny looking?

"This way," I murmur embarrassed. "Masking tape is in the decorating aisle."

I glance behind me as he follows.

"Have you worked here long?" His voice is low, and he's gazing at me, blue eyes concentrating hard. I blush even more brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me?

I feel like I'm fourteen years old - gauche, as always, and out of place. I turn around, come on girl, he can't get the better of you!

"Four years," I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock.

"I'll take that one," Laufeyson says softly pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to him.

Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I've touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it, all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my something, anything, to keep me from falling.

"Anything else?" My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen slightly.

"Some rope, I think." His voice mirrors mine, husky.

"This way." I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and head for the aisle.

"What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope... twine... cable cord... " I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow is he hot.

"I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope please."

Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot blue gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious? Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife.

"Were you a Girl Scout?" he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don't look at his mouth!

"Organized, group activities aren't really my thing, Mr. Laufeyson," I murmur handing him the rope.

He arches a brow. "What is your thing, Hannah?" he asks, his voice soft and his secret smile is back. I gaze at him unable to express myself. I'm on shifting tectonic plates. Try and be cool, Hannah, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.

"Books," I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas above its station.

"What kind of books?" He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so interested?

"Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly," I shrug.

He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer. Or perhaps he's just very bored and trying to hide it.

"Anything else you need?" I have to get off this subject - those fingers on that face are so distracting!

"I don't know. What else would you recommend?" His blue eyes are on me, watching me.

What would I recommend?! I don't even know what you're doing. Not that I want to know what psychopath is doing. "For a do-it-yourselfer?"

He nods, blue eyes alive with wicked humour. I flush, and my eyes stray of their own accord to his snug jeans.

"Coveralls," I reply, and I know I'm no longer screening what's coming out of my god damn mouth.

He raises an eyebrow, amused, yet again.

"You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing," I gesture vaguely in the direction of his jeans.

"I could always take them off." He smirks.

"Um." I feel the colour in my cheeks rising again. I must be the colour of the communist manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW. Imagine him standing in no clothes at all... NO!

"I'll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing," he says dryly, blue eyes glinting.

I try and dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans. Mmmmmm... "Do you need anything else?" I squeak as I hand him the blue coveralls.

He ignores my inquiry. "How's the article coming along?" Control freak.

He's finally asked me a normal question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double talk... a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if were a life raft, and I go for honesty. My subconscious sniggers: that's not the only thing you can grasp with two hands...

"I'm not writing it, Rebecca is, Miss Smith. My roommate, she's the writer. She's very happy with it. She's the editor of the magazine, and she was devastated that she couldn't do the interview in person." I feel like I've come up for air - at last, a normal topic of conversation. "Her only concern is that she doesn't have any original photographs of you."

Laufeyson raises an eyebrow. "What sort of photographs does she want?"

Okay. I hadn't factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don't know. My subconscious does: nak- NO!

"Well, I'm around. Tomorrow, perhaps... " he trails off.

"You'd be willing to attend a photo shoot?" My voice is squeaky again. Becky will be in seventh heaven if I can pull this off. And you might see him again tomorrow, that dark place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thought - of all the silly, ridiculous...

"Becky will be delighted - if we can find a photographer." I'm so pleased, I smile at him broadly. His lips part, like he's taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.

Oh my. Loki Laufeyson's lost look. It's even better than a puppy's begging face.

"Let me know about tomorrow." Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet. "My card. It has my cell number on it. You'll need to call before ten in the morning."

"Okay." I grin up at him. Becky is going to be thrilled.

"HANNAH!"

Paul has materialised at other the end of the aisle. He's Mr. Taylor's youngest brother. I'd heard he was home from Yorkshire, but I wasn't expecting to see him today.

"Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Laufeyson." He frowns as I turn away from him.

Paul has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I'm having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-scale attractive control-freak Laufeyson, it's great to talk to someone who's normal.

Paul hugs me hard taking me by surprise. "Hannah, hi, it's so good to see you!" he gushes.

"Hello Paul, how are you? Are you home for your brother's birthday?"

"Yep. You're looking well, Hannah, really well." He grins as he examines me at arm's length. Then he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It's good to see Paul, but he's always been over-familiar.

When I glance up at Loki Laufeyson, he's watching us like a hawk, his blue eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard impassive line. He's changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else - someone cold and distant. The bad Loki Laufeyson, my subconscious whispers; which somehow makes me want him more. Damn.

"Paul, I'm with a customer. Someone you should meet," I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Laufeyson's eyes. I drag Paul over to meet him, and they weigh each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic.

"Er, Paul, this is Loki Laufeyson. Mr. Laufeyson, this is Paul Taylor. His brother owns the place." And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more. "I've known Paul ever since I've worked here, though we don't see each other that often. He's back from Yorkshire where he's studying business administration." I'm babbling... Stop, now!

"Mr. Taylor." Loki holds his hand out, his look unreadable.

"Mr. Laufeyson," Paul returns his handshake. "Wait up - not The Loki Laufeyson who destroyed Manhattan and now owns Laufeyson Enterprises?" Paul goes from surly to scared to awestruck in less than a nanosecond.

Loki gives him a polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Wow - is there anything I can get you?" Paul smiles.

"Hannah has it covered, Mr. Taylor. She's been very attentive." His expression is impassive, but his words... it's like he's saying something else entirely. It's baffling.

"Cool," Paul responds. "Catch you later, Hannah."

"Sure, Paul." I watch him disappear toward the stock room. "Anything else, Mr. Laufeyson?"

"Just these items." His tone is clipped and cool. Damn... have I offended him? Taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the till. What is his problem? You. No his other problem.

I ring up the rope, coveralls, masking tape, and cable ties at the till.

"That will be forty-three dollars, please." I glance up at Laufeyson, and I wish I hadn't. He's watching me closely, his blue eyes intense and smoky. It's unnerving.

"Would you like a bag?" I ask as I take his credit card.

"Please, Hannah." His tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic.

I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place his purchases in a plastic carrier.

"You'll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?" He's all business once more. I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand back his credit card.

"Good. Until tomorrow perhaps." He turns to leave, then pauses. "Oh - and Hannah, I'm glad Miss Smith couldn't do the interview." He smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of raging female hormones. I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which he's just left before I return to planet Earth. Fuck, shit, holy hell, I feel like I could do a back flip right now.

Okay - I like him. There, I've admitted it to myself. I cannot hide from my feelings anymore. I've never felt like this before. I find him attractive, very attractive. But it's a lost cause, I know, and I sigh with bittersweet regret. It was just a coincidence, his coming here. But still, I can admire him from afar, surely no harm can come of that. And if I find a photographer, I can do some serious admiring tomorrow. I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl. I need to phone Becky and organise a photo-shoot. I need to see Mr. Laufeyson again.

**Please review xx**


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